This Little Light of Mine
by gschelt
Summary: There has always been a little distance between Quinn and Rachel, but a bus or a train or a lean in might help close the gap. Faberry fluff, oneshot.


_**Author's Note:** I wrote this for day 1 of tumblr's Faberry Week prompts: Road Trip. I hope you enjoy this little bit of fluff. :)_

* * *

Rachel hates road trips. Though her tiny legs always have plenty of room and never get stiff in the backseat of a car, her giant personality, on the other hand, never fails to feel cramped. It's positively _stifling_ for her bursting creativity to be confined to a small metal box – her talent is no sardine, after all – and she gets bored and antsy in a matter of an hour or less. It was easier when the only folks she traveled with were her Dad and Daddy, who put up with and often times even join in her endless games of Guess-That-Liza-Minelli-Solo or I-Spy-in-A-Minor. Now that she's gotten older, however, it's only harder. Not that her peers are exactly _complete _boors, but they do tend to get somewhat impatient when –

"Rachel, if you don't shut up I'm 'bout to come over there and ruin my brand new Beats by Dr. Dre earbuds by wrapping them around your neck, and I'm telling you now the silence will be plenty worth it."

The sharp admonition comes from her left, and the diva frowns severely across the sticky school bus aisle where Mercedes regards her grouchily. Rachel is about to snap back in injured self-defense (she'd only been exercising her vocal cords with scales at two-sevenths of her full volume, for heaven's sake) when she realizes that Mercedes is probably on edge about their Regionals performance in Columbus in the morning. She softens; understandably so, Mercedes must be insecure about her own ability to perform at first place capacity, and Rachel can't be cross at her for that. Were she not so confident in her own excellent abilities, Rachel would probably have a similarly intolerant disposition.

"Mercedes," Rachel begins kindly, plastering an approachable and relatable smile to her lips, "I'm sorry if your PosturPedic memory foam neck pillow isn't relieving the stress in your spinal column the way you'd hoped it would."

The other girl, neck and chin squished up by said pillow resting snugly on her shoulders, just stares back dully.

"However," Rachel plows on, "Perhaps a bit of gentle singing – a lullaby, in fact – might work wonders in soothing your obviously agitated nerves. If you'd like, I actually have memorized several-"

"My nerves would be pretty damn soothed by your shutting up," Mercedes interrupts flatly. She glares grumpily across the aisle for a moment before re-inserting her earbuds and facing back to the front. Conversation over, apparently.

"Seriously, Rachel." This time it's Finn, pausing his PSP and twisting around in his seat in front of Mercedes. He peers at the tiny diva wearily, his eyes pinched and barely hiding annoyance. "Everybody's really tired, and nobody's in the mood right now."

"Or ever," comes Kurt's distant interjection from a few more rows ahead.

"Can you just give it a rest?" Finn finishes. Several other members of the club – Tina, Puck, Mike – crane their necks and gaze unsympathetically at Rachel, who fumes silently.

"Fine," she huffs, patience with her insensitive peers thinning considerably. One would think that it's a crime to be awake or heaven forbid make any _noise_ on a five hour bus trip from Lima to Columbus. If that's the case, then Finn seems to have taken it upon himself to act as the infuriatingly superior law enforcement officer. Indeed, the tall boy could never be counted upon to step up as club captain when it really mattered, but leave it to him to attempt a semblance of obnoxious authority when it comes to impeding the practicing of the club's most experienced and valuable member, on the eve of the most important performance of the year, no less. No one is quite as good at breaking Rachel's considerable all-suffering nature than the boy who snubbed her.

"I suppose I'll stifle myself," she announces coolly, shooting to her feet, "and give you the silence you so desperately require to concentrate on scoring a few points in a pixelated children's game." Refusing to grant Finn with the gift of her eye contact, Rachel turns on her heel – as gracefully as she can manage in a speeding juggernaut of a schoolbus – and stalks down the aisle to find a spot near the back to be by herself. She's certain that Finn did not quite grasp all of the vocabulary she used, but the dopey confusion surely evident on his face right now is often satisfying enough anyway.

* * *

Quinn loves road trips. Though she'd spent a good number of them in her years growing up squabbling in the backseat with her older sister Abigail (memories of her father's threats to "turn this damn car around" echo in her mind, and she smiles fondly before the expression slides slowly from her mouth), she's always found them relaxing. Given how busy her schedule tends to be, what with Cheerios and studying and church and dating, Quinn welcomes a block of several hours in which she can just read or listen to music. Much of the appeal comes from the view outside the window, comforting as it slides from roadside field to forest to city. She likes that there's so much land stretching past outside of Lima, whizzing by for her to drink in like tea. Anything outside of Lima is a welcome and – dare she even think it – promising sight.

Lately it hasn't seemed so promising, though. Absently, Quinn's fingers slither upon the blouse-covered surface of her drum-tight belly. Swollen and almost unbearably heavy, the ripe globe under her skin has been making Quinn feel like all she'll ever experience of these other places is what she sees outside a car window.

She turns away from the window to her right and busies herself with rummaging for her copy of Sense and Sensibility; the rapidly-changing landscape is making her feel carsick anyway.

Situated in comfortable isolation at the very back of the bus, Quinn heaves a sigh and, with some effort, leans back into the corner against her pillow. She'd picked this seat because she wanted room to stretch out and space to think without getting a headache from the other kids. Quinn has always had a pretty low patience level when it comes to antics of other high-schoolers, but ever since she got pregnant they've all seemed to go from immature to downright childish. She supposes that's the hormones altering her perception, or maybe the baby slowly growing fingernails in her belly has aged her about ten years in the past nine months. It _has_ been nearly that amount of time, too – exactly nine months a week from tomorrow; either way, Quinn wonders if her mind will ever get back to normal.

Forget her body, it's already been completely counted out; the other moms in her prenatal care class have warned dourly about baby weight and stretch marks enough for Quinn to know that it's unlikely she'll ever have her taut cheer captain's figure back again.

Quinn is interrupted from her rather self-pitying train of thought by approaching footsteps, and when she looks up she is somewhat startled to see Rachel coming towards her. Her vision's not so great because the sun has almost completely set (so much for Sense and Sensibility), but it appears that Rachel's is just slightly worse because she notices Quinn in the very last seat about a half a second later and gives a small start, stopping short at the next seat.

"Hello, Quinn," she greets politely, her left hand clutching the top of the brown seat. Quinn notes the way the shorter girl's fingers dig into the spongy padding, wrinkling the ugly brown covering. She's nervous. She's nervous around Quinn regardless of their truce, clearly, and Quinn is surprised by the sadness that causes her.

"Hey," comes the mild response.

"I'm… sorry if I'm disturbing you," Rachel says hesitantly. It's a shadow of the last time Rachel had apologized to her; really, the last time they had spoken directly. She apologizes for outing Quinn as a liar in front of the whole choir room and a month later apologizes for walking too close to her. If anyone needs to say they're sorry it's Quinn, given the downpour of insults and corn syrup over the last two years.

"It's okay," is all she says in reply. Ill-timed and jumbled and unprecedented, the first clause of something really uncharacteristic was waiting behind Quinn's teeth but she couldn't say it. She couldn't blurt out her regret for all of those wasted months. She doesn't know why the urge swept so abruptly through her – the hormones, probably. It doesn't matter. The moment passes. Quinn clears her throat and nods to the seat across from her with an unspoken "have a seat".

Rachel stays rooted to the spot where she stands, and she opens and closes her mouth several times. Seeing the normally-verbose girl struggling for words is strange, but then again she often seems off her guard around Quinn. Being treated politely by the blonde girl has probably thrown her more than any insult could.

"I just…" she explains tersely, "I wasn't feeling welcome up where I was sitting."

Quinn nearly responds with "you're welcome here". She doesn't know why; again, most likely hormones. Why else would she want Rachel keeping her company? Instead, the blonde just shakes her head and stares at her book. "I don't mind."

"I won't bother you," Rachel says quickly. "I was merely rehearsing some scales up front, but I didn't make the journey to the back of the bus to find a new practice spot; the company was dour enough to make me simply seek a new place to sit. I'm perfectly content to sit and do my crosswords in silence – I understand that in your condition peace and quiet is probably very important. The third trimester is quite strenuous, especially regarding sleeping habits and anxiety, and if you want me to go away I can-"

"Just sit down, Rachel." Quinn looks at Rachel pointedly before returning to her book. It's not like she can read a word of it anyway, given the fact that the last of the sun's rays have disappeared behind the horizon, but her ears are burning. Being callous with the vivacious brunette is nowhere near as easy as it had always been, and feeling her armor crack is unsettling. Things were easier when she thought she believed Rachel was an annoying little gnat; not better, just easier.

Rachel, for her part, obediently drops down into the seat across the aisle from Quinn. She looks relieved as she smoothes out the pleats of her skirt and busies herself with rummaging through her bag. Quinn can't guess if Rachel's relief comes from escaping her peers or finding that her refuge with Quinn was painless, but she assumes that it's both.

The urge to say something, _anything_, rises up again like word vomit, but Quinn forces it down. She'd gotten good at it during the months when morning sickness hit her the hardest. Still, though she had also improved at telling the truth, something sticks in her through like a wishbone when she tries to get those words out with Rachel. It's not like she can just say she's sorry anyway. What would she say; how would she even begin to breach the subject, or explain the reasons behind the petty torment? Quinn doesn't even understand the reasons herself, and she doesn't want to. The idea that she never hated Rachel – not even _close_ – doesn't sit well in her stomach.

"Do you have a booklight?" Quinn says abruptly.

"Hm?" Rachel turns, distracted, a strand of hair sticking to the gloss on her lips.

"A booklight," Quinn repeats, waving her own. "For your crossword, do you have one? I have an extra." She feels momentary irritation with Rachel for making her repeat herself, but she brushes it aside, knowing she's moreso irritated with herself for feeling embarrassed and displacing it on Rachel because it's easier. It's the recognition of that fact that really indicates the difference between Quinn at the beginning of the school year and Quinn at the end of the school year.

The brunette's eyes widen comically. "Oh! No, I forgot to bring one. It would be great if you could lend me one, actually."

Quinn nods and hands Rachel her extra booklight. As their fingers brush it feels clichéd and incredibly stupid, but Quinn can hear the rumble of the wheels on the highway more acutely, can feel the balmy May air suspended in the darkness of the school bus. It's just a premonition, but as Rachel turns shyly back to her crossword and Quinn turns slowly back to her novel, she wonders if maybe she could unstick the wishbone and properly set things straight with Rachel. Maybe they could even do things better than awkward and unsure. That strange something Quinn tried to push further down with every slushie could never happen, but at the _very_ least maybe someday they could be...

* * *

"A friend. Yes, from high school. Just for tonight and tomorrow night. I know you said guests would be okay but I just wanted to make sure – oh? No, that works out then. Excellent. Okay, well have fun at home. I'll see you Sunday night then. Alright. Thanks, Laura."

As Rachel hangs up the phone she hears the clear, bell-like sound of Quinn's laughter from her left.

"God, Rach, I can't believe you waited until I was off the train to ask your roommate."

They're walking side by side down a characteristically busy sidewalk of Manhattan, each lugging one of Quinn's overnight bags. Rachel switches the handle of her friend's rolling suitcases to her other hand and gives Quinn a _look_.

"I'm sorry if my newfound procrastinating ways are too reckless for you to handle," she huffs, "but New York and its fast-paced lifestyle have changed me. You're just going to have to keep up."

Quinn just laughs, longer and louder than the last time. "Now, _that's_ the Rachel I know and love," she says happily, and throws her arm around Rachel's shoulder as they stride along down the street. "I've missed you so much. I can't believe it's only been three weeks since I saw you last."

Rachel lets herself soak up those warm fuzzies as she walks beside Quinn back to her dorm. It just feels so _good_ walking with the hustle and bustle down the streets of Manhattan, feeding off the energy of the city that she loves _and_ the girl that she… Well, anyway, it's just really nice having Quinn visit. It fills Rachel up with a boundless exhilaration that makes her just want to _seize_ everything there is to seize in the city. As though life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter, etc. She doesn't really love that metaphor anymore anyway, but it popped into her head and in doing so it brings her back to the first time she'd sung _Don't Rain On My Parade_ on a big stage, at Regionals her sophomore year of high school.

And that brings her back to, well… to Quinn. The girl strolling beside her, craning her neck up at the skyscrapers with a carefree smile ghosting her lips. That year was the year that Regionals had been upstaged by the Cheerio's labor pains, the year that the big finale of the show was Beth's entrance into the world. That trip to Columbus for Regionals also marked the first time Quinn was ever really nice to Rachel, and as silly as it is, the moment when Quinn offered her booklight stands out brighter than the moment when her water broke backstage. It's funny how that little book lamp shines brighter to Rachel than all the stage lights in that auditorium in Columbus, but then again, becoming friends with Quinn Fabray _is_ the one thing she's most happy to have accomplished during her years at McKinley.

"Is this it?" Quinn stops short in front of an impressive metal structure labeled "Krannert Dormitories".

"Oh!" Rachel's nostalgic reminiscing also stops short as she very nearly collides with Quinn. "Yes, here we are. Home sweet home, which is incidentally where the heart is. I don't quite know how it applies or what it _im_plies in this situation, but-"

"Rachel!" Quinn is laughing again as she pushes through the heavy double doors. "No need to ramble, it's just me." She re-shoulders her backpack as Rachel follows and lets the brunette lead her towards the elevators.

Right. Just Quinn. Rachel nearly laughs aloud at the irony of that statement, because they both know their friendship-thing has never been _that_ simple. Rachel's always been terrified of Quinn in some way, and it's possible no amount of time or reassurance will keep her from rambling every now and then. _Just Quinn_. Yes, Rachel (she monologues internally), it's _just_ the girl whose every sudden movement made you literally flinch for two whole years, whose approval you have craved desperately for the entirety of four and a half, whose kisses you pressed Finn Hudson for details about junior year and which, if you're being entirely truthful, you haven't entirely quit wondering about…

No, absolutely no reason to be nervous.

The girls practically collapse into the next elevator that arrives, exhausted from the long walk from the train station. Quinn, leaning against a bar with her cheeks flushed happily, blows a strand of slightly sweaty blonde hair from her nose and smiles lazily at Rachel.

"Piece of cake, huh?"

Rachel smiles, melts a little bit, and crosses her fingers that she doesn't completely ruin this.

* * *

Quinn used to love long trips, but today she came to hate them. It was a sudden thing, too; she road tripped to New Haven with her mom about a month ago and enjoyed the relaxation of the radio and endless highway, but today as soon as she boarded the train to New York she was anxious for it to be over.

She strongly suspects the shift has something to do with the destination.

And why shouldn't she be beyond excited to visit Rachel? This is her first time seeing her friend's new dorm, and her first time in the big city unchaperoned. Who wouldn't be antsy to get there already?

That rationale may be different than the sort of things she convinced herself in high school (primarily sophomore and junior years), but it's still just as transparent. Quinn has progressed tremendously in regards to being honest with herself, but sometimes she regresses and tries to lie to herself. The real reason why she bullied Rachel in high school and why she's so psyched to see her now couldn't be more clear.

Quinn stands at the bureau in Rachel's dorm room, admiring framed pictures – Rachel and her dads, Rachel with Kurt, a group shot of the Glee Club. That last one in particular was taken right after they'd won Regionals her junior year, and Quinn smiles when she notes that she and Rachel are right next to each other. Hips brushing, arms pressed together – even when they weren't friends (and it had been particularly bad around that time that year), they always seemed to physically gravitate toward one another.

"What do you think?" comes Rachel's voice from behind her, anxious for a consensus on her room, her new home. Feeling jumpy, Quinn whirls around and plasters a grin on her face.

"I'm in love!" she blurts. The tiny brunette near the door opens her mouth. "With the room," Quinn quickly tacks on the end.

Oh, yes. Couldn't be more clear.

Seven hours later and it's far after their bedtimes – well, they're college girls and don't have bedtimes anymore, but their internal clocks have agreed that two a.m. is time to sleep. Dinner, sightseeing, and Gilmore Girls reruns have exhausted Rachel and Quinn, and they've crawled into the former's surprisingly wide bed.

"Your bed is twice as big as mine," Quinn grumbles, getting situated under the comforter.

"While that may become a bit of a problem when it comes time for me to visit you at Yale, I think it's kind of a good thing given the fact that we're here now.

"I guess you're right." Quinn exhales and inhales a few times, looking out Rachel's window and counting the lit windows in the building across the street. It occurs to her that she could have just crashed in Rachel's roommate's empty bed, but that's too much of a fuss at this point. They're already situated, and it might be a breach of roommate conduct. Still, it's not like either of them would be or would have any reason to be _crestfallen_…

"Quinn?" Rachel asks softly, as though timid to wake up the unstirring darkness itself.

"Mhm?"

"I can't sleep. Do you mind if I read a little bit? It'll help."

"That's fine." Quinn, lying facing away from Rachel, is wide awake. It won't make any difference. It's not like she can sleep anyway when she's this close to Rachel, when she can feel the mild warmth radiating only inches between their skin, but she won't think about that. If she doesn't think about it maybe she can ignore it and drift off.

"Thanks." It's a couple of seconds after Rachel reaches for her nearby desk and clicks on a soft light that Quinn looks over her shoulder, and she realizes something.

"Is that…" she begins suddenly, "Is that my book light?"

Rachel seems startled by the abrupt question, turning quickly to look at the blonde. Her hand, illuminated by the slender arm of a small lamp hooked to the spine of her book (there's no mistaking it), freezes on a page as though guilty. As though Quinn still makes her nervous; it's a laughable thought, there's no conceivable reason for Quinn to still make her nervous. Still, it's startling to _Quinn_ to see that her friend has kept something she gave her in passing years ago.

"I – yes," Rachel replies tersely. "I hope you don't think it's strange that I've kept it." She worries her lip between her teeth and glances at Quinn.

"No," Quinn reassures thoughtfully. "I'm just… surprised. Why do you still have it after all this time?" She doesn't want to dare hope that a moment secretly so monumental in her own mind means anything to Rachel. That flimsy little lamp represents the flimsy little light inside Quinn that she'd allowed to shine a little brighter that night on the bus, when she let herself do what she'd wanted to do from the beginning – be _nice_ to Rachel. But there's no reason Rachel would know that.

Quinn isn't expecting an answer, a real reason, but Rachel sighs in some sort of preparation anyway. "It's silly," the brunette says in an attempt at briskness.

Now Quinn's curiosity is piqued. "What is it?" She turns over to face the sitting-up Rachel, looking up at her patiently.

"I can't tell you." Now Rachel is squeezing her eyes shut, and it's an expression Quinn knows well; it's as though the petite diva is trying to keep her secret from leaking out of her tear ducts. And that means there _is_ a secret, so now Quinn is _ravenous_ to know. She props herself up on her elbow, suddenly feeling more awake.

"What, Rachel?" she urges. Quinn knows how hard it is for Rachel to keep anything to herself, how absolutely painful it is for her, and it shows. The brunette looks both parts shifty and uncomfortable, visibly torn between bursting to talk about whatever it is and not feeling ready to spill. Quinn can't even fathom what Rachel might be thinking about her and the booklight that would prompt this.

"Oh, dear," Rachel says to herself distractedly, looking troubled. "I had planned endlessly for this conversation, but the booklight was not the introduction I had prepared."

This perplexes Quinn. She'd asked about the booklight innocently, but she seems to have opened a can of worms in doing so; apparently the tiny lamp has something to do with something Rachel was planning on confronting her about. Quinn finds her pulse beginning to quicken in her ears in spite of herself, tinged by some hopeful foreboding.

"What was…" she begins slowly, "What was the introduction you had prepared?"

"Well…" Rachel murmurs, biting her lip and regarding Quinn carefully (really, the blonde hasn't set her this much on edge in over a _year_, it's beyond puzzling). Her eyes wander all over Quinn's face, down to her toes and back again, and her head dips with the hint of some unfinished motion. "I had thought of maybe something brave." Her head dips again.

Her head dips _close_.

Close enough for Quinn to feel Rachel's hot nervous breath on her cheek.

Close enough for Quinn to count all of Rachel's eyelashes and forget where she is.

The curtain of chestnut hair closes in around them with a gentle swish and before Quinn knows it she is being kissed.

Quinn has never been caught so completely off guard in her life, and she does not know what to do. She feels as though she has never been kissed by anyone before and – _this_ is a new feeling – has never felt her own lips before. Perhaps the nerve endings had just never woken up before now, maybe it was a simple biological problem that kept her from ever remotely enjoying kissing boys in the past and maybe she really _is_ normal. That's the old Quinn's way of thinking, though, and right-now-Quinn can't form any thoughts whatsoever because _Rachel has just leaned in to kiss her and Rachel is kissing her. _

Rachel pulls back, and it's like a Velcro split. "Is this okay?" she whispers hesitantly.

_No!_ sixteen-year-old-Quinn screams from somewhere deep down.

"Yeah," comes the hoarse response. Sixteen-year-old-Quinn always had denial issues.

Rachel's eyes, luminescent and just barely visible in the dark, flicker to Quinn's lips as though she cannot believe the blonde's flesh and blood body is actually there beside her. She leans in again, more hungrily this time, and quickly captures Quinn's mouth.

"Am I going to wake up soon?" Rachel asks, pulling back again suspiciously.

"I hope not."

"I can't believe you let me kiss you," the brunette whispers rapidly. "But I knew you liked me too, I knew it."

Quinn doesn't deny it. She wants halfheartedly to form the words but can't bring herself to lie. No, not anymore. "So you like me?" is all she says, hardly able to believe that this is happening. Rachel Berry, the girl she had bullied and avoided for years to bury her feelings, had actually _kissed_ her and might actually _like_ her. Quinn doesn't dare breathe.

Rachel blinks and smiles shyly. "I had thought it was rather obvious."

"Oh." There is really no response to that. The shock of it all has got Quinn's hard drive and command center wiped. Then, throwing caution to the wind, "I like you too." Because she does. She _really_ does, and _really_ has for a long time. Before she ever knew it she was drawn to Rachel, inexplicably pulled towards her – but that was always too confusing, so she convinced herself it was annoyance. Ever since that became tiresome and they became friends, Quinn doesn't know why she still tried to squash the feeling. Perhaps because she always just assumed that Rachel could never feel the same way. But now, that misconception has been thrown out the window. Fireworks blossom in Quinn's chest.

And she practically leaps forward to press her lips back to Rachel's, where she's only felt the delicate divine pressure fleetingly but knows it's where she belongs. Rachel utters a small squeak of surprise inside her closed mouth, but she moves her lips against Quinn's luxuriously. It's better than either could have hoped.

The booklight, sitting atop the comforter, casts a soft glow on the undersides of their joined faces. Yes, it's where Quinn belongs.


End file.
